What's a Fugue Between Friends?
by LittleMender
Summary: How the sheep dip did she get into these situations?  Jane whispered a snicker into her ear, and not only did she have the only possible answer to that question but a pounding urge to hit someone as well.


**I have never written a one-shot just for the heck of it, something not a tag or part of a series. But I woke up the other morning thinking something very serious about "procellous", a story by Brown Eyes Parker that I started reading the other night. Somehow my mind moved trippingly to a completely ridiculous notion and I had to write it down. This short takes place after and refers to Episode 4x10 but is neither a tag nor a sequel to a tag I've already written for that episode. It also takes into consideration (though does not hinge or dwell upon) what Donnamour1969 learned in doing research for her excellent Fugue in Red tag, that fugue sufferers who come out of that state remember absolutely nothing that happened while their minds were captive; although, I'm sure Jane would pick up on the hints of expressions, unguarded comments and body language afterward. This is just something light and hopefully funny that I think might just be a hysterical reaction to the recent darker events of the show. A breakdown on paper, if you will.**

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WHAT'S A FUGUE BETWEEN FRIENDS?

_How the __**sheep dip**__ did she get into these situations?_

Jane whispered a snicker into her ear, and not only did she have the only possible answer to that question but a pounding urge to hit someone as well.

Their suspect was a lowlife B & E man who had recently made the crossover into murder when his marker to an organized crime boss had come due and he decided killing for hire was the better alternative to losing precious body parts. The scene had been a messy one, and apparently, never having killed anybody up-close and personal, the perp hadn't realized what he was getting into. The victim had been covered in sweat and saliva and had managed to take a pretty good bite out of his assailant's hand. If he hadn't been well over seventy years old and caught completely unawares, the struggle might have had a different outcome. As it was, because he was a former cop and current lobbyist for tougher laws against drug and vice crimes, the DNA tests had been given priority and an ID easily made.

Jimmy Kritch, aka Jiminy Cricket, was a regular at the bordello known only as #7 in southeast LA. Regular to the point of complete predictability. Every Thursday, 11 p.m., room 9, corner. Jane, who usually had no problem whatsoever waiting at a safe distance, had claimed he'd never been in a "_bone-ified_ cathouse" (his first snicker of the evening) and had begged to be allowed to "_come_ along" (snicker #2). Looking at the prospect of a simple bust of an apparently inept repeater, she had acquiesced on condition that he stop with the bad sex puns, warning him that it probably wouldn't be as much fun as he had apparently hoped.

Van Pelt and Rigsby were ordered outside to cover the exits, and Cho was babysitting the madam—with whom he had instantly developed a weird rapport—who had simply shrugged and waved them upstairs at the flash of a badge and the assurance that nobody was interested in busting a few working girls. They had come up the narrow staircase and into the center of the dark hall. Jane had spotted and pointed out room 9 just ahead and to the right as he moved eagerly toward it until reminded by the tiny growl behind him that he wasn't point.

He had been crestfallen when she had burst through the door at 11:03 to find the room unoccupied, and she had found herself unaccountably consoling him that "Jimmy must be running late." She had just suggested that they should make themselves comfortable, scowled at his waggling eyebrows at her unfortunate choice of words, looked around the room and leaned one shoulder against a wall to wait when a male voice much too deep to be the Cricket's had rumbled out in the hallway just before the door knob had jiggled and turned. Jane had grabbed her sleeve and she had unthinkingly followed his lead, diving for the floor and slide-wiggling under the low bed frame on their stomachs. Now she was wondering why she hadn't had the clarity of thought to simply stand and declare herself. But Jimmy was still out there, and within seconds the situation had shifted so that she knew interrupting the two ships passing over their heads would definitely raise enough of a ruckus to alert him to their presence and intentions. Hope of communication or progress either way died as her earwig crackled and did the same. And just in time as it happened.

"So, baby, whaddo'I'callyou?" their Casanova queried.

_Monique_, Jane mouthed at her. The only reason she could see him was that a lava lamp, still plugged into the wall socket, had crashed to the floor and rolled to where they both faced the foot of the bed seconds after the lovebirds had entered. The electrically charged undulating glop cast a pink glow over his face. She could only assume he was seeing her through a projected film of lime green.

"Monique," came the reply, slightly fatigued and nasal. Lisbon turned her head to Jane in irritated disbelief and he somehow managed a shrug.

"I'm 'Floyd'," he responded, receiving in return her hum of apathetic acknowledgement.

The bed creaked above them, and the side just over Lisbon sagged deep.

"'Floyd' must be a longshoreman . . . Beefy." Jane whispered.

"Oh yeah, and I'm a dock worker tonight—"

Jane grinned at her in triumph. If she relaxed completely, she might be able to shimmy her arm up and elbow him in the nose.

"—and maybe you could fake a French accent, '_Monique_'?"

"Shouldn't be that much more of a stretch," Jane giggled.

She did jab her fist at him at that point from where her left arm was tucked along the length of her side, and from his slight jerk and clipped grunt she knew the blow had landed though she couldn't be exactly sure where. He let out a pained breath and mumbled something about "jewels", and she felt herself flush and tried to tuck her limbs closer.

There were some more noises above them, grunts and moans and heavy panting, all distinctly male, Monique adding an occasional mini-groan.

"You like that, baby? You like it when I touch you there?" Longshoreman Floyd asked breathlessly.

"_Foreplay?"_ Lisbon mouthed in heightening irritation and rolled her eyes. Jane was pretty sure Monique was having the same reaction even if only internally.

Monique gave a tiny grunt. "You're on my hair."

"Oh. Sorry, ma petty shoe," Floyd garbled.

Jane crossed his eyes at Lisbon when the springs shifted over him and they heard the nightstand drawer open and a flat "Whatever" drop over the side of the bed. The mattress shifted back and activity resumed with what Floyd was certain was a sexy, "Where were we?"

"Does it matter?" Monique asked with just enough inflection that one couldn't be certain of her meaning.

"That's right, 'Niquie. It's all good, and I double-booked like usual. We've got the who-o-ole hour."

"Great," the hooker said with thinly veiled sardonicism, impressing Jane with her ability to pull that off.

Floyd was an apparently sensitive and generous man who thought it was more of a turn-on for his sweetheart-for-hire if he forewarned her of every maneuver then described it in agonizing but surprisingly poetic detail as he carried it out. All Lisbon could do was hope that Jane's wheezing laughter blended in with the amorous john's heavy breathing. Finally, exhausting his repertoire, Floyd got on to the main attraction. The frame jounced and dipped dangerously over, around and on them, their rumps taking most of the impact. Lisbon guessed it was all right to be relieved that she and Jane had fortuitously fallen under the bed in the opposite direction to that of their bunkmates.

"Don't worry," Jane whispered in her ear, his voice laden with humor and sympathy. "I'm sure it's almost over."

"Good," she groaned. "I don't know how much more of this I can take."

His brow quirked, and he nearly choked with holding in the chortle that suddenly threated to explode out of him at wondering if Lisbon could actually be channeling the thoughts of the woman above them. She frowned a warning at him and caught the tail end of his thinking. Rolling her eyes, she dropped her face to the floor only to recoil with a sharp jerk. Luckily, Jane's hand was suddenly on the back of her head, protecting her skull and deadening the "thunk" it would have made against the bed frame.

"What is it? Are you okay?" he whispered, his concern immediately turning him serious. She didn't know if she felt more like kicking herself or him for the pleasure she felt at hearing it.

"Fine. I'm fine." She had already decided there was no way she was going to tell him the leg he was half lying on had gone to sleep. That went double for the patch of lent-covered sticky with which her forehead had just connected. She was suddenly struck with wondering how he had gotten his right hand on the back of her head so quickly and realized it had been splayed across the upper center of her back the whole time in a gesture of protectiveness. Though she would never bring it up much less thank him, the desire to do him harm was greatly diminished. He didn't say anything for a while, and against her better judgment she turned to look at his face. The open expression of affection surprised her. Rarer than Cho's smile, Rigsby's embarrassed stammering and Grace's hugs, that look always unnerved her a bit.

"Have I told you thank you?" he asked out of the blue.

"Four times," she answered then grimaced that she had just let him know she kept track. "For what?"

"For bringing me back," he murmured.

She knew what he meant instantly and huffed in irritation. "You're bringing this up . . . _Now?_"

"Well, while we have a minute," he tried to tilt his head into the shrug. "I was pretty—"

"You don't need to thank me." She'd only _thought_ she was uncomfortable before.

"I think I do. You could've left me like that. I probably wanted it in a way."

"Yeah. You did," she answered softly. Then, realizing this really wasn't the right time or place to talk about it—if there were such a thing—she rebounded. "But you were pretty fugued up."

Picking up on her track, he instantly grinned at her. "Glad I had you to get me the fugue outta that."

"Well letting you go would have been a huge fuguin' mistake."

"I woulda been _royally_ fugued."

"Oh, you woulda been fugued _over_."

Lisbon was such a delight sometimes. Often, really. Even without trying to be. "Has the irony-?"

"Just now," she cut him off signaling the end to their whispered game but still feeling a little soft toward him, glad she had done what was needed to get him back even though it had hurt both of them.

Then, his eyes swiveled to the side and upward. "You know . . .," he mused in wonder, "—this is really . . . quite . . . impressive."

Floyd was still going strong, and Lisbon's wanting to put the hurt on something was firmly back. The whole thing was exacerbated further when Monique started offering encouragements, little incentives to help the process along.

"Oh, Floyd baby, you're so good," she monotoned.

"Yeah? . . . Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah. Best ever."

"Thanks . . . ungh . . . _merci_."

Apparently it did the trick. Three final slowing bounces and their movement stilled, the frame shuddered, Floyd groaned, his breathing quieted and Monique released a sigh into the darkness.

"Hope the lava lamp wasn't some sort of focal point for her," Jane murmured in feigned remorse.

The room grew strangely quiet, and Jane and Lisbon held their breaths. When Floyd began to softly snore, Lisbon considered whether to issue a warning before she fired her weapon straight up through the mattress. But Monique, bless her, put the situation to rights with, by the sound of it, a firm smack.

"Wake _up_, Jackson." It was the first genuine emotion they'd heard out of her.

"Wha—? Hm?" he mumbled into the bed sheets. Then he must've turned his head because his words were clearer. "It's 'Floyd', baby," he whined. "'Floyd'! Remember? And I've got . . . thirteen more minutes."

_Whack_.

"This i'n't extended stay. No sleepers. Now out. I've got a midnight, and I need a shower."

Floyd grumbled but complied, fumbling with his trousers. Impatient, Monique picked up the rest of his clothes, pushed them to his chest where he reflexively grasped and held them in place and trundled him out the door. Certain the room wasn't an en suite, Jane and Lisbon continued to breathe lightly and waited for the hooker to leave.

Instead, she shuffled around the room for a few seconds, putting it to rights. They both tried to draw further in and out of sight when her thin hand circled around the lava lamp and picked it up to put it back in place. Then, something nudged the bed hard, and a teal-colored terrycloth mule waggled under it accusingly at them.

"You can come out now."

That little thing in your head that says "Maybe if I just keep quiet" went off and blew past and they both reluctantly slid themselves out and into view, Lisbon quietly "e-yoo-wing" at what she could only guess must be coating the cheap fake-wood laminate floor. They both stood and awkwardly straightened their clothes. Jane, of course, was the first to recover.

"Monique," he smiled with the perfect amount of charming sheepishness. "So very nice to meet you." Ever the gentleman.

"Betty," she grunted flatly as she lit a filterless cigarette and took a long drag.

"What?" he asked with endearing confusion.

"Betty," she repeated with exactly the same inflection. She slid her left arm across her waist and planted her right elbow on her wrist there then unfurled her curled right hand to take another languid inhale of nicotine. As she exhaled, her mouth opened, bottom jaw crooked to one side. Squinting through the spiraling tendril of smoke rising from the end of her cig, she let her eyes rove slowly and thoroughly over Jane's body, her gaze lingering at key locations. The perfect smile on his face remained unaltered, his deep swallow the only indication he knew he was being seriously considered for the role of midnight snack.

"Well, . . . Betty. We've got to get going." As much as Lisbon was enjoying this at the moment they really did need to leave. She had finally remembered Kritch, but only with curiosity about whether the others had managed to collar him. She turned to leave, Jane so close behind and eager to be away that he was gently pushing against her back with both hands. But Betty-Monique was surprisingly fast. As Lisbon's hand closed on the knob, the working girl's left arm reached past them and her hand flattened against the door.

"Not so fast."

Lisbon slowly swung her body around. Her eyes narrowed, and Jane knew Betty had just crossed into perp territory. "Ex_cuse_ me?"

Betty's other hand lifted, palm upturned and claw-like, the cigarette's butt poking through her talons. "Twenty bucks," she said in a tone that wouldn't tolerate argument.

"Twenty bucks? What the hell for?"

"Standard rate for people who like to watch."

"But we didn't _see_ anything!"

_OMG. Are you really arguing over not getting your money's worth?_ Jane wondered hysterically.

"Yeah, but you heard. And believe me you got the better end of that deal," Betty assured her.

Lisbon had had enough. With a nonchalant boredom that rivaled even Betty's at the height of her passion, she withdrew her badge from her belt clip and flashed it.

"CBI, Betty. We're after a homicide suspect."

"I don't care if you're the friggin' Queen of Siam. What I'm after here is a President Jackson. Look. You're lucky I don't charge you fifty for the use of the room."

"What?" Lisbon asked in utter bewilderment. Jane could've explained exactly where this was going but knew it would be better if it came as a surprise.

Betty took another long draw on her cigarette before motioning angrily with her smoking hand.

"It's always the uptight ones like you," she said with disdain, looking Lisbon up and down now with a very different sort of expression. "You drag your sweet piece in here—"

"Excuse me?" Lisbon actually squeaked on the words this time.

"—and get off on a quick roll in dirty sheets—"

"Now wait a minute," Lisbon was nearly roaring.

"—but this ain't no charity, and everybody pays for their good time. You got a problem with that, tell it to the judge. If you hurry, you can catch him before he leaves. Now _give_."

They were starting to square off, and Jane knew intervention was necessary before things just got too good. He stepped between them and laid what he hoped was a calming hand on Lisbon's forearm.

"I've got this, Antoinette," he said, reaching into his vest pocket and retrieving a folded twenty to present it to the hooker with a flourish. Her fingertips greedily closed on the edge, but Jane held fast, causing her hand to still and her eyes to meet his. His fingers traveled along the paper to stroke and curve around her hand before he raised it and, just before making contact, paused to look up at her through his eyebrows and murmur sensuously, "It was worth every penny". The kiss he dropped to her knuckles was light but lingering.

"Mercy," she breathed, looking at his riotous curls as he bent over her hand.

He stood and gazed deeply into her eyes, covering her just-kissed skin with his left hand as he still held it lightly with his right.

"_A votre service_," came his throaty reply.

Without even looking at Lisbon he sauntered from the room. Her eyes followed him until he cleared the door then snapped back to Betty. She thought Jane had given her a more than fair trade in services rendered, and she would have that twenty back. She grinned wide with superior satisfaction at the hooker when she noticed her still suspended hand was already empty and nearly ran out of the room and down the rickety stairs after her consultant.

"Jane! . . . Jane!" she hissed, hurrying to overtake him.

"Fun's over Lisbon. And everybody knows we're in a bordello. You can stop whispering," he shot over his shoulder as he cleared the threshold and stepped out into the night air.

"Oh—" she said in a more normal voice. "Yeah."

Jane kept going, not stopping until he reached the walk then turned to let her catch up.

"You got your money back," she basked vicariously.

"Well, yeah. Like you said, we didn't actually _see_ anything."

"And how'd you know all that stuff? What they would say?"

"Well, the Right Honorable 'Floyd' may not have been so smooth, but his liberally used cologne was expensive and tasteful, that of a professional hence educated if not sophisticated man as was later borne out by his vocabulary in his more loquacious moments. I knew he would probably appreciate the decadent if somewhat pedantic thrill of pretending his lady love was French. And while Betty was savvy enough to know something of that nature as well, she didn't seem too used to thinking on her feet—"

He gave her a moment for the snort.

"—and 'Monique' is, I believe, rather stereotypical for an assignation of this sort."

"And the longshoreman thing?"

"Obviously, again, 'Floyd' was well-educated, working in the high-rise, white collar world. The fantasy would be—approaching a lady accomplished in the courtesanly arts—to be a peasant who, with only his natural good looks and brutish-but-gentle sexual prowess to recommend him, could tempt her away from the wealthier aristocrats. Or—in modern terms—a blue-collar man who did heavy physical labor. Rough around the edges. His large size would lend believability to the role."

"But longshoreman. Specifically."

He rubbed his hands up and down his vest and looked around. "Ah . . . actually . . . that was a lucky guess," he finally admitted.

"Hey, Boss. Where you been?"

Jane laughed outright at her pained expression. She had completely forgotten about Jimmy Kritch. _Again_. He turned to Rigsby as the younger agent approached to stand next to them, the three of them forming an open circle.

"We were upstairs under—"

"We waited for Kritch upstairs in room 9. He was a no-show."

"Nah. Nah, we got 'im." Rigsby motioned down the block behind her at where Van Pelt was telling a scrawny, weeping Jiminy Cricket to watch his head as she lowered him into the back seat of a patrol car.

"Where was he?" Lisbon asked, her game face firmly in place.

"Room 9," Rigsby said slowly, looking at her sideways. "Like the intel said. Almost missed him. Headed for what looked like 9 at the top right of the stairs, but Van Pelt noticed one of the tacks had come loose. Turns out it was the 6 upside-down."

Her glare turned full on Jane, and there was murder in her eyes. Rigsby didn't notice. His concerned gaze roamed over her face and head, obviously looking for signs of injury. "Hey . . . what's that-?" He motioned just above her eyes. "On your forehead."

She gasped and her hand rose abruptly to where she was suddenly aware of the tight feeling on her skin. Jane exploded with laughter, and she lunged toward him, stopping just short of actually making contact and effectively shutting Rigsby out.

"_You_ . . . you knew! You knew I still had that _crap_ on my forehead!"

"It's dark out here, Lisbon. How could I have known?"

"There was light in the room, Jane, and my hair's all stuck to it now. You knew. And you didn't say anything."

"What's going on?" Cho's voice sounded behind her.

"I don't know, man. Jane and the boss just came out of the . . . building, and she's got stuff on her forehead that she says Jane should've seen up in the room."

"Well, in my defense, the lights were really low."

"Why you—stop that," she warned dangerously.

"No need to be angry, Lisbon. I'm sure we can agree that what happened in #7 stays in #7."

She seethed at the snickering coming from behind her. Jane thought it wise to seek refuge. He walked around her, circling wide, and she rotated on her axis, tracking his movements, their eyes never leaving one another.

"All in fun, Lisbon," he said soothingly as if calming a wild animal, tucking himself behind Rigsby's large body. "It's all in fun. And the boys know it's all in fun. Don't you boys."

"Sure," Rigsby's chuckle morphed into a high-pitched giggle as he choked out "Fun."

Jane punched him in the back hard for saying exactly the wrong thing and took off at a dead run hoping the shock of seeing him engaged in physical activity would be enough to delay Lisbon's takeoff and give him a head start. He only made it a few yards before he heard her gaining and turned suddenly, hands up, palms out.

She was too close and coming too fast to stop, and both of their eyes widened at what they knew was a given if he didn't change the position of his hands. He widened the distance between them, causing them to land on and curl reflexively around her upper arms, very glad for his quick thinking and response. As it was she barreled into him, her chest hitting his upper abdomen hard, and he staggered backwards from the impact.

"Let go! Let go of me!" she yelled wildly, attempting to twist out of his grip. He held firm, careful to keep his lower half out of kneeing distance.

"You did _not_ want to tackle me."

"You're right," she hissed through clenched teeth. "I wanted to mow you down. Hurt you. _Annihilate_ you."

"Lisbon." He was using the wild animal whisperer voice again. "Think of where we just came from." He watched her face as she stopped twitching and grudgingly followed his instruction. "Now. Take a look around you."

Panting with the exertion it took to not be killing him, she let her eyes move first then her head swiveled slowly. There were roughly two dozen law enforcement officers in the immediate vicinity and all eyes were on the two of them. Out of necessity and a sense of self-preservation along with the calming influence of his fingers stroking against her shoulders and working their way down to take her hands in his, she quieted and was arrested by the intense sincerity in his eyes.

"You were about to give them the twenty-dollar for free."

The snarl rumbled rough and deep in her throat. "Let go of me so I can reach my gun".

"Shoot me here, dear? In front of all these witnesses? You'd never get away with it."

"Nobody would complain if I pistol whipped you."

Still holding both of her hands between his massaging ones, he ducked his head to the side so his lips were next to her ear and crooned in a voice that would've turned Betty into a puddle, "Well then put the fifty on my tab."

She gasped and pulled back to stare at him open mouthed. Then he watched transfixed as her lips slowly came together, her brow furrowed prettily and her nose crinkled in a way that made him want to tap it with his fingertip.

"Bite me, Jane."

"Is that on the rate list?"

"Fugue you. _Ass_."

"I don't pay extra for dirty talk."

Totally against her will, she laughed, and the tension in a four-block square palpably relaxed. He looked around and over her head and waited until business resumed then released her with one hand and dug into his trouser pocket for his handkerchief, spit into it and proceeded to clean her forehead.

"Jane!" she shouted, writhing in his one-handed grasp.

"What? You never had a spit-bath?"

"Not since my mom," she sulked at him, sullen and surly. She felt the pulled feeling on her skin ease. "That's just gross."

"Meh. All things considered this is pretty tame. There. Better?"

"Yes," she reluctantly ceded as he turned her toward the SUV, dropping the soiled fabric into an open garbage can as he went. "But I'm scrubbing myself down with rubbing alcohol as soon as I get back to the office," she hastily added.

"You and me both, Antoinette. You and me both."

**END**


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